


Factory Sealed

by aliencereal



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Anxiety, Bickering, Cyborgs, Developing Relationship, Dry Orgasm, First Time, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Praise Kink, Premature Ejaculation, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-06
Updated: 2015-05-06
Packaged: 2018-03-29 06:20:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3885619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliencereal/pseuds/aliencereal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Simmons explores the intersection of robotics and virginity.  Grif helps.  With his dick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Factory Sealed

**Author's Note:**

> OKAY SO [Alice](http://sirchompskychompington.tumblr.com) was helping me edit this but then I got tired of looking at it so I didn't actually send her the second half of it. I am a terrible writer to beta for. Any mistakes are mine and she's glorious for putting up with me.

Simmons hates being naked.

High school gym class was a traumatic mess of locker room insecurity and homophobic slurs (why, oh _why_ , did his father make him try out for the girls' teams?). When he was in basic training, there was the jeering and 'friendly' towel snapping of the shared showers. His actual military career hasn't involved much nudity, but he has brand new reasons to hate taking his armor off.

He's half fucking _metal_ , and what's left of him isn't that much prettier than the inhuman parts. His skin is a minefield of scars and lingering freckles, his hair only growing in patches. He's taken to buzzing it for the first time since basic, just so it doesn't show all the bald spots where the scar tissue reigns supreme. He bleeds from the human parts and leaks coolant from the robot parts; he has no idea how the two fluid systems interact and he's a little afraid to find out. He's only had a handful of orgasms since the surgery and they were all completely, unsettlingly dry. If his own body creeps him out, it's probably going to make Grif uncomfortable too.

Which is why Simmons' issues with nudity are currently relevant to his life. The two of them have set up in the base's most enclosed space; Simmons is readjusting the thin mat that qualifies as a bed for the ninth time to put off getting undressed.

Grif has no such issues, unlatching his armor casually. The patches of skin he got from Simmons look diseased, ringed with thick pink scar tissue and clashing with his own dark skin. His stretch marks look at home on thick thighs but seem alien where they streak across his soft belly, where he has Simmons' freckles. His body is as much a mess as Simmons', but leave it to Grif not to care. It almost makes Simmons angry to look at him.

Instead, it makes heat prickle under his remaining skin. When the codpiece comes off, Grif is already half hard. Simmons feels a phantom twist of nerves in a stomach he no longer has.

“Don't tell me you forgot how to take this shit off,” Grif says, breaking Simmons' train of thought so abruptly that he startles a little. It's strange to watch the movement of lips while Grif talks instead of looking at a helmet.

“Fuck you!” Simmons snaps back. “Unlike you, I get plenty of practice when I _shower_.”

“Yeah, yeah. Then take it off already,” Grif says, like it's that easy. And it probably _is_ that easy, for anyone who isn't Richard Simmons. Either way, he sighs heavily and unlatches the armor plating from his arms. It attaches differently than regular armor does, but he's used to it by now.

Everything from his collar bone to his hips is metal. There isn't even fake skin on most of it-- just a little bit around the edges where his actual flesh connects to stainless steel. There are soft red silicon strips marking where his ribs would have been as well as on the palms and fingers of his hands. He can still feel heat and touch through them, but they're the only spots that seem to connect to his remaining nervous system. It's a miracle he isn't paralyzed, as Grif has his _spine_ as well as most of his guts and about half his bones.

While Simmons is stripping naked and mulling over the fact that he feels nauseous without the guts needed to _be_ nauseous, Grif sits down heavily next to him on the bed-mat.

“Dude, are you shaking?”

Fuck. He hadn't noticed.

“No!” Simmons immediately replies, his voice a few octaves higher than it really should be. “I'm fine! Everything's fine!”

“Yeah, I'm calling bullshit.”

Simmons drops his head into his hands and groans.

“You _know_ I've never done this, you ass,” He mutters. Grif shrugs.

“So? Dicks really aren't that hard to figure out.”

“Just shut _up_ , Grif.”

“No way, dude, I can hear you worrying from here.”

Simmons is opening his mouth for a comeback when Grif leans over and--

kisses him.

It strikes Simmons all at once that they haven't kissed. They've talked, sure, made the situation a little bit better understood on both sides, but this is their _first fucking kiss_.

The urge to keep Grif from leaving kicks in and he leans into it, forgetting that Grif can't hold his weight outside of armor. His instincts still peg him around 140 pounds.

And that's how Simmons ends up on top of Grif, half on and half off the mat. He's still wearing the bottom of his under suit. It's a clumsy move and the panic spikes immediately, but if Grif feels awkward about this, it doesn't show. He slings an arm casually around Simmons' shoulders, grins at him with something warm and unfamiliar in his eyes. Then he kisses him again, lips parted this time.

Grif's kissing is as lazy as he is, sloppy and slow and oddly easy to relax into. The pace makes him restless at first, until it starts to pour heat under his skin. It's... nice. Really nice.

Simmons sighs shakily into Grif's mouth. Grif thrusts up against his hip almost in tandem with the noise, making Simmons flush so hard he's afraid of shorting out his wiring.

He pulls away from the kiss, hoping words will quiet the thrumming nerves. He doesn't get the chance to try; Grif opens his eyes, then promptly rolls them in exasperation.

"You're fine, Simmons," He says. When Simmons goes to say something cutting in reply, Grif grabs him by the hip and grinds against him. The friction carries through Simmons' undersuit and oh _fuck_ , that felt really good. 

" _Grif_ ," He whines, hiding his face in Grif's neck.

Without the distraction of kissing, Simmons' focus shifts to the ache between his legs. Grif was half-hard before they started but Simmons can feel that he's all the way there now.

Nothing in his life had prepared him for the rush of relief he'd feel the first time he got real, tangible evidence that someone he cared about was attracted to him. It's a shallow way of being wanted but it's intoxicating; he kisses Grif again, frantic this time. He wants to get off, he wants to get _Grif_ off even more. This whole situation has tipped over from nerve wracking to the best kind of overwhelming and Simmons thinks he might be tearing up.

Grif rolls with Simmons suddenly going feral on him. He doesn't even seem surprised by the waterworks. He digs his thumbs under the top of Simmons' undersuit and pulls it down over his hips. Simmons whimpers and thrusts when his newly-freed cock presses into soft skin.

"Fuck yeah," Grif moans, hauling Simmons up his body so their cocks can slide together more easily. And it is a _slide_ , because Grif is leaking precum in a way that means he's probably about to--

"Shit," Grif moans, his head falling back against the mat as his cock pulses between them. Simmons is startled into stillness, but the pressure of his body against Grif's seems to be enough, if the look of rapture on his face counts for anything.

For the moments after Grif goes limp, things are silent except for heaving breaths and the blood pounding in Simmons' ears.

"That was quick," Simmons finally manages, his swollen, aching cock encouraging his irritation.

"Shut the fuck up, dude, been wanting to do this _forever_ ," Grif mumbles, just before he rolls the two of them onto their sides, facing one another. Simmons doesn't realize what's about to happen until Grif's already made his move; he's too caught up in the meaning in those words.

Which leaves him surprised when Grif wraps his fingers just under the head of his dick, pressing his thumb against the slit and rubbing firm circles there. Simmons whines and thrusts, but Grif keeps a good grip and doesn't speed up or stop. And, _fuck_ , it feels good. Every swipe of Grif's thumb sends shivers through his body, so strong that he thinks he might shake apart. The noises he's making are fucking embarrassing, pathetic whining dissolving rapidly into ruined sobs. If he had actual lungs, he'd be worried about hyperventilating.

" _Jesus_ , you're so fucking hot," Grif mutters.

Simmons chokes out a tiny squeak as the words take him from painfully close to _coming_. The hot rush of bliss curls his toes and whites out his vision and Grif--

Grif doesn't even slow down.

Too good shifts to too _much_ and Simmons frantically pushes his hands away, gasping.

"What-- Seriously? There's no way you weren't close, dude, what are you freaking out--"

"I already-- th-that was it. There isn't any... Not since the surgery."

The silence is awkward. Even through shivery little aftershocks, Simmons' anxiety is starting to resurface.

"Huh. Weird," Grif finally says, like it doesn't matter. Simmons makes an incoherent noise of protest and Grif raises an eyebrow.

"What, you got off, right? Does the no-jizz thing fuck it up or something?"

". . . Well, no, but--"

"Then who gives a fuck?" Grif says, leaning over to where he left some of his armor plating. To take out a cigarette, apparently. Simmons swats it right out of his hands.

"Dude, what the hell? Smoking after sex is an important tradition. Not that you'd know," Grif's mockery is less sharp than usual, more fond.

"So is cuddling," Simmons huffs. "And that doesn't ruin my lungs."

"My lungs now, asshole," Grif says, but then he puts an arm around Simmons' shoulders to tug him in close. They're actually going to cuddle.

"I think cuddling predates smoking, so we're probably being even more traditional this way," Simmons babbles, starting to feel nervous again.

"Nerd," Grif sighs sleepily, running blunt fingernails along Simmons' scalp. He couldn't do that if Simmons was wearing his helmet.

Maybe nudity has its perks.

**Author's Note:**

> [here's my tumblr](http://xenosaurus.tumblr.com)


End file.
